


Christmas Challenge 2012 ~ 30 Days OTP

by beautifullyheeled



Series: Christmas 30 Day OTP Challenge 2012 [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:44:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 6,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just as it says on the title. This is for the Christmas/Holiday/Winter 30 Day OTP challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1




	2. Day One:  getting out/putting up decorations

“Oi! Come on Sherlock!”

“Hold on a moment John, this will only take a few more seconds.”

“Grandad will like them, no matter how they are done up...”

“I know that John, but the lights! The lights are perfect! They dance!”

“Alright. We should hurry though, You do know that my aunt’s house is the other side of London...”

“Yes. Yes. Is Donna going to be there tonight?”

“I’m not certain, Aunt Sylvia said she’s traveling from somewhere and might not make it tonight.”

“All done!!!”

“Cheers! Let’s be off then shall we!”

“Don’t forget yours too John...”

“Damn...”

They walk down the stairs heading out to Baker street and the crisp cold night air just as their cab pulls to the curb. Hurring in away from the crisp chill, John gives his aunt’s address to the cabbie then his attention back to Sherlock.

“Now you know I’m not wearing those ridiculous things...” 

“Oh, you know you like them. Christmas cheer and all that.”

“Fine. Only for Grandad. He’ll enjoy it; two of us irritating Aunt Sylvia will make his night.”


	3. Day Two: making christmas cards

They had drug the supplies from Donna’s room. She and John had been reminiscing non-stop for the last hour then Donna had the brilliant idea to help John make postcards for their upcoming party that Sherlock had begrudgingly agreed to have. That did not mean he had to help with the process.

Sherlock stepped outside joining the two men already outside in the garden. Wilf, John’s grandfather, was very jovial and kind. That is why Sherlock felt he had to indulge the old soldier; that and he had taught John so much of the realities of war preparing him before he was deployed to Afghanistan. It most likely had lengthened his life and possibly saved him a few times while pinned down.

This new man though, the Doctor. Doctor Who? Why was he going only by his title? He was glad for John’s cousin, as he seemed very clever and observant. That is what really interested Sherlock, this man looked at him almost as if he could wade through a person in seconds and yet no one else seemed to notice. 

“Wilf, Doctor. Nice evening out.”

“Yes, Sherlock. It is.” The Doctor replied. “Wilf here was just explaining that you purposely forgot about the solar system and all things celestial?”

“Oh, not this again...”

 

“Sherlock. I’ve told you since I’ve met you, the stars give us hope.” Wilf spoke serenely, feeling quite sage. “Well laddies, I’m off out to the pub for a bit. See you lot a bit later, yea?”

“Alright Wilf, be careful tonight.” Looking over his frames, the Doctor gave the older gentleman an look that was both fatherly and mischievous all at once. “And kiss Ethel on the cheek for me, yea?”

“Will do. I’m sure I’ll woo her with my new blinking dancing antlers. She’ll get a right laugh out of them, then I’ll go in for the sneak attack!” The older man laughed as he headed through the garden door back into the kitchen to leave the Noble household.

“So, Sherlock,” said the Doctor as his keen gaze ran yet again through the younger man before him. “Have you been able to figure me out yet? I do love puzzles as well you know. And you are. Quite the puzzle that is.”

“No, I have not. Other than you are not from here. You love here, but this is not your home. You are aeons away. There is stardust in your hair and sadness in your eyes. Yet, you seem on the exterior a common man. Very brilliant, extremely wonderful observational skills, and you travel often. Who are you?”

“Wow. Sherlock Magnus Holmes, you amaze me. Very astute that. And I’ve already told you, I’m the Doctor.”

“No, my doctor is inside his aunt’s home. You are not a physician, though I believe you know how to heal. No. You cannot be an occupation, Doctor. It is impossible.”  
“Well, you know how the quote goes, don’t you? Try to believe at least seven impossible things before breakfast?”

“But it is dinner now.”

“Ah, right again Sherlock,” The Doctor smiles widely, seeming to sparkle and lift the whole countenance of the area as he does so. “But what meal comes after that, hmm?” 

“Breakfast.” Sherlock thoughtfully admits.

“See. There you go. Seven impossible things it is.” 

The doctor looks through the glass watching his companion and her cousin stamping, gluing, and coloring as jovial as children all their cares forgotten for a while, and smiles again. 

“Want to see the first?”

“Impossible thing? I can’t. That is why they are impossible Doctor.”

“Call it a Christmas game then. Let’s play.”

Walking toward the relic of a police box in the corner of the garden, the Doctor motions to Sherlock to follow. As he does, the Doctor looked past him towards Donna who has taken a second to glance in on them both from the table. Nodding, she silently agrees to look after John until they are back. He nods in return mouthing the word ‘soon’.

“Well, Doctor, you want to show me this old booth? Why? It is not so impossible.”

“No, Sherlock, it really is as it is not a police box.”

Unlocking the doors, the Doctor stepped in, beginning the tour he gives all his companions. Sherlock is amazed. As he reaches out into the entry of the non-police box, he looks at John at the table engrossed with glitter, ink, and family. It makes his heart unbelievably warm.


	4. Day Three: sitting/snuggling in front of the fireplace with hot cocoa/tea

They stepped back out of the TARDIS. 

For the others it had been 15 minutes. For the Doctor and Sherlock, it had been much longer. They had seen whole system collapses, discussed philosophy with Plato, watched the rise of the Second Golden Age of Man, sat still discussing what it means to be Galfreyan, what it means to be the child of one. 

Searching for the Doctor’s daughter. Knowing she was his mother, that she had been here and swapped him for the child in the Holmes nursery that had passed deep in the night not long after he was born. That she had done so to protect him. That he was half-Holmes, but not who sired him. 

Touched when the TARDIS began teaching him how to maneuver her around the stars and cosmos. Finally the Vortex. 

Peace. 

Quiet. 

John. 

He missed John. 

Needed him like oxygen.  
So they went back. 

Grabbed their Companions, and headed off again through the Vortex to move almost 13 billion light years away to a star that had just gone supernova. Donna passed out the santa caps and hot cocoa. They went off to the Game Room to give the boys some privacy while they snuggled.

This is how the two not quite lovers found themselves snuggling in front of the massive star that was roaring feet dangling into space, but only having eyes for one another and the smaller wonder that was growing between them.


	5. Day Four: shopping for and/or wrapping gifts (Part One)

Sherlock stopped at the small tea shop.   
He was hoping to find something just right for John.

Normally, he would not even give Christmas a second thought; gifts even less if one told the truth. This year was different. He had a Dr. John Hamish Watson in his life now.

His Doctor. Well, there was the possibility between them where there hadn’t been before.   
Sherlock hoped beyond hope it would become a probability, and soon.

So he found himself in the quiet little shop looking for something very special.   
When Sherlock found out the owner made specialty blends, he asked for two, no three.

The third was his. 

It would be special. Maybe they could enjoy it Christmas evening while Sherlock read Yeats.  
John close to him in his arms, fire warming them as they lounge together.

Maybe they’d kiss. 

Wouldn’t that be a lovely Christmas miracle?

The owner came back out with three quite beautifully hand painted tins.  
Each one having their name in gold calligraphy freshly written.

As Sherlock made his way back to their flat before John was home from work he began   
thinking of the life that could spin out and bind them together. 

There was all the time in the world before them.   
Possibly. 

He wanted probability, but The Doctor had things to find and he did as well.   
If he could regenerate...well that thought would have to wait for Later.

Now was new for them both.   
Sherlock would stay Now to hopefully have Later.

Yes, he would kiss John while the snow flurries down around the windows   
of their flat as the fire warms their nest of blankets and exposed skin. 

He would speak soft words and woo His Doctor, his John while the tea   
and it’s sentiment would warm him further to Sherlock’s affection.

John. His ever intriguing John.


	6. Day Four: shopping for and/or wrapping gifts (Part Two)

John quietly locked his door. 

For good measure he put his deck chair underneath the knob.  
Opening his wardrobe, he pulled out his purchases from earlier that day. 

He left work early to pick up his supplies and the package that was waiting.  
Now, in the solitude of his room, he smiled.

The books would be perfect. 

Turn of the Twentieth century anatomy book with beautifully vibrant meticulous representations  
of the human body that cataloged everything possible for the time. 

The other a Nineteenth century Apiculturist Guide.   
Sherlock had told him a few months ago about his fascination of bees.

John wistfully created warm images of sharing the books over tea.  
Discussions lasting hours, allowing him to drown in Sherlock’s voice and brilliance.

He laid the paper flat wrapping them in the dark blue that John had happily found; affixing the aubergine satin ribbon tightly cris-crossing it and tying it expertly in a beautiful bow that only he could undo. 

John put everything neatly away putting up all the evidence.   
He hid Sherlock’s gifts in the newly created false bottom of his wardrobe.

Only twenty-two days before he could see Sherlock’s reaction.  
He prayed that they would please him immensely. 

He hoped he had gotten it right for Sherlock.  
Something the man would want, would truly enjoy.

Something that quietly spoke of steadiness and deep understanding.  
Speak of John’s unconditional friendship, the promise of more on the horizon.

He could see it.   
Crazy, insane, never predictable life with his Sherlock.  
His. He hoped.  
That is what Donna had told him.  
Never give up hope.

She had told him this story of a library, well The Library.  
Donna had found her one love there.

She lost him, but she was hoping that he’d be hers one day.  
He was out there somewhere. 

Sherlock was right here everyday.

In the mornings grumbling over tea and toast;   
at night taking John to eat and sharing off his plate some of the time.

Or the nights they stayed in, no matter how maddening.  
Sherlock yelling at the telly, him writing or blogging.

Both of them insanely content around one another.

Yes, John thought, his Sherlock.


	7. Day Five: buying the Christmas Tree/decorating the Christmas Tree

  
Thank the gods for internet ordering.

John paid for the tree and three wreaths, just thankful he was not going to have to move them through London on his own.  Let someone else do it.

Now, to go get all the trimmings, baubles, lights, and tinsel.

Mrs. Hudson had a wonderful collection of glass that was eclectic and happily colored. She offered to go through them to make sure none were broken, so he left her to it and took a cab to go settle the rest of his purchases.

Three hours later, a very excited John came bustling into the foyer.

“Mrs. Hudson! Sherlock?”

“Here John! I’m coming!”

Mrs. Hudson came arms outstretched ready to receive any parcels to help carry up to the flat.

“The tree came and the wreaths as well while you were out! Oh, John they are lovely!”

“Sherlock home yet?”

“No dear, I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright! This will be a wonderful surprise then, yea?”

While John set up the tree in the base and fluffed the branches after stripping the netting he set to stringing the lights that Mrs. Hudson had unboxed for him. Then the tinsel, candy canes, and baubles. It was homey and breathtaking.

 

Mrs. Hudson worked on the wreaths stringing the beads and cordless lights through the circled boughs finishing them with lengths of ribbon and big bows. John helped wire a few of the baubles in clusters to the wreaths as well. Then, he hung them from the window frames visible to the street bauble side facing the flat.

They finished the mantle, secondary and primary foyer tables, and finally hung the wreath on the main door. When they were all done, they shared some  tea and gingersnaps that Mrs. Hudson had freshly baked that morning.

“What about the star John?”

“I’ll save that for Sherlock.”

“Alright, dear. Well I’m off to bed. Goodnight.”

With that Mrs. Hudson quietly left to her own rooms.

 

 

_home soon?-JW_

_no. tied up. of sorts.-SH_

_you’re in for a surprise.-JW_

_with you I’m always pleasantly surprised.-SH_  
  
 _should be home before morning.-SH_  
  
 _night then.-JW_  
  
 _text if I’m needed.-JW_  
  
 _i mean it Sherlock.-JW_  
 ****  
  
  
John went to bed, pleasantly content from the holiday activity.  
  
In the morning he would be greeted with a surprise of his own.


	8. Day Six: mistletoe

When John woke up, he woke up all at once and not alone.

Sherlock was curled on the far side of his double bed, barely a whisper of space between them. Perplexed John took a moment to breathe before reacting in the millions of different ways his body was telling him to.

He rarely came to John’s room, unless he had a particularly bad nightmare. Sherlock was still slightly shell-shocked from the Incident so there was a reason he was there. Then the doctor’s intuitiveness went off when he noticed the pinking and friction marks on Sherlock’s wrists.

“Oh Jesus...” John whispered softly into the cool morning air of his room. 

Now worried, John moved the covers as stealthily as he could to see if there were any more abrasions or worse that might warrant medical attention.

‘Please not worse...’ John thought into the silence.

Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any other marks.

John sighed, lying back beside his friend. He closes his eyes to help him memorize the warmth beside him. The warmth of Sherlock in his bed, with all the new desires and hopes swirling through his body. John considers himself so very lucky. 

He has never considered himself tentative or gentle. After all, John had spent two full tours in the front lines and emergency surgeries in Afghanistan. For some reason though, he knew intrinsically that he must embrace the yielding side because Sherlock needed understanding, patience, and unconditional.

Fingertips softly running the curve of his best mate’s side, John caressed him gently. Over the wiry muscle brushing that which was honed to the point of vanity, the ribs that felt so very delicate beneath the warm expanse of Sherlock’s skin. So very right underneath his hands, oh how he wanted. 

‘Not yet time, Watson. You both need time.’ John thought full of hope and knowledge that soon, so very soon, the moment would be right. They would know, as they have always known. Why did it matter if one had to play catch up for a moment to the other? 

It was like the old school-yard game where you play chase and then kiss the one you finally tackle. In his youth it had always been girls, but that was primary grade. Now, it was just John and Sherlock and their merry game of chase; of seduction. 

‘Maybe he’d hang the mistletoe today over the breeze through in-between the living area and the kitchen today, instead of closer to Christmas...maybe not. They had time didn’t they?’ John ruminates momentarily before deciding to start his day.

Touseling Sherlock’s hair lovingly, he raised to leave the bed and shower.

“No.”

“No?”

“P-please John.”

“Please?”

“Yes. Need you. Too much. Later.”

“Always.”


	9. Day Seven: making snowmen

Mycroft had had the cottage set up wonderfully.

Tree, stockings, but not overdone. Just enough to echo Baker Street.

Sherlock had needed out of London, John could tell. He hadn’t been exactly himself since two nights ago when John had awoke to find him in his bed. It wasn’t unusual, Sherlock did have nightmares every now and again, but he seemed fearful for the first time since John and he had met. So John called Mycroft, made the arrangements for them, told Sherlock and went upstairs to pack.

When he returned to the living area, Sherlock hadn’t moved still deep in thought so John went into his room and packed for his errant-flatmate as well. In very little time, John roused Sherlock out of his thoughts long enough to get them both downstairs and into the waiting black sedan. This began to seriously worry John, as Sherlock hadn’t even bickered or decried the need for this downtime. 

He just hoped to help his friend.Sherlock breathed beside John’s ear as if it were secretive before leaning into him settling into John’s shoulder as if he were seeking shelter. As he had acted similarly last night right before he had laid his ear over John’s heart and fallen asleep in his arms trembling. 

“Thank you, John.” 

“Quite so, Sherlock. It’s fine.”

~

Three days later, they sat in the chairs in front of the fire. 

“That’s it. I’m going out. The snow is too beautiful and I am in a mood.”

“But John...”

“No. I’m going out and playing in the snow.”

With that, John stood, grabbed one of the marvelously warmth trapping coats, a set of snow boots, putting them on with much show before finally heading out the door.

He had rolled what he thought was a particularly good base and was in the middle of rolling the second one when Sherlock appeared beside him rolling a third. They went on busily until they both had close to the appropriate size, then Sherlock helped John lift the middle section before the two began packing snow around the joined area. 

They repeated the process with the top sphere and then stood back to make minute adjustments packing or shaving off where needed. Sherlock had brought out some of the bark chip starters from the kindling and a carrot as well so they gave their snowman a face. 

Two eyes and a nose.

Peering at them. 

Knowing they were being idiots, John could see the look. He knew it well. 

“Hmm...”

“Yes John? Pleased?”

John turned and rubbed Sherlock’s winter bitten cheek with his gloved hand. 

“Cold John.”

“Feel like something to warm us up, yea?”

John pulled his hand out of his glove, and raised it again bare and warm ghosting it back across his previous touch before Sherlock trapped it keeping it holding it to his face. His eyes were so very haunted it terrified John in ways he hadn’t been in ages.

“Sherlock, I’m here.”

“It’s going to take a while. Longer than I ever wanted.”

“Take all the time you need. I’m here. This is me not going anywhere, do you understand?”

“Don’t you see John I don’t want Time, I want Now.”

“Then take it. Sherlock, take now.”

John did the only thing he could think to do. He pressed himself up against Sherlock and used his free arm to grasp them closely together trying to comfort in some small fashion; in anyway he could. 

“Soon, I promise you John. So very soon.”

“Yes, alright.”


	10. Day Eight: wearing ugly christmas jumpers

The two walked back into the bone warming heat of the cottage. 

After they had re-hung their coats and removed their boots, Sherlock wound his way back to the leather chair he had mentally claimed as his.

“Sherlock, I’m setting the kettle on and I’m going to shower.”

“Can I come with you?”

“I don’t think I-”

“No...just to help. On second thought, you are right. Not a good idea.”

“Oh, alright. I’ll be right out.”

Sherlock had forgotten that he still needed a small amount of Time before he was healed enough for John not to notice. He was just thankful that he hadn’t pressed him when he found him in his bed five days ago. 

God, he had been gone too long. 

Sherlock stood and moved as silently as possible toward the large bathroom. Luckily enough, John had undressed in their room so he wouldn’t have to disturb John’s shower. As he sat on the bed, Sherlock clasped the jumper in his hands and brought it to his face nuzzling it and weeping. 

His John. 

Now. 

He was Now; not Then.

Sherlock tried to permanently etch the woollen softness into his memory while categorizing and picking apart the intertwined scent of John’s base self and his cologne that had been left on the knitted material before being engulfed within his ennui.

“Oh god, John...Hamish...”

“Shhh...Sherlock. I’m here alright.”

“It’s alright, I’m just weeping over how horrible this thing is that you feel you must wear. Green and white argyle with kitties that are looking at you? And they have santa hats?”

“Oh, I thought; well never mind then.”

Good, he had led him off a bit...hopefully just enough.

“Did you pack your ivory one?”

“The jumper? Yea, I think. Why?”

“What about the Christmas one, the one with the red and the trees?”

“Yes, Why?” John was genuinely acting curious now.

“Can’t you see John? Really look. Listen.” 

Get him thinking about the one in his bag for me...

“Sherlock you aren’t making a lot of sense right now to me...”

He could be wrong, but he had to know. 

John was sentimental. It was their first Christmas. They were going to get a beautiful picture out of this trip, he had seen it on their mantle. Sherlock wanted to make sure that John always had that. 

“Did you pack one for me?”

“Sherlock...”

“Is it all ‘Christmasy’ as well?”

“No. I do think you will like it though.”

“May I see it?”

“How about you wear it? You go grab a shower, now that there’s probably hot water again, and I’ll get it out, yea?”

“John, I have something for you at the bottom of my bag. Would you wear it for me?”

“I don-”

“Please, John. I thought you really might like it.”

“Alright, Sherlock.”

It was a first. John had never knew he wanted to do this until the opportunity had presented itself. He carefully picked out everything and left it waiting knowing Sherlock would be met in the room with his clothes laid out for him by John. Dark jeans that were purposely meant to look vintage, slate grey bespoke shirt John loved but hardly ever see Sherlock wear, warm toned leather belt to match his shoes. 

Then John’s purchases. Plum argyle socks with a dark brown and ivory pattern that would amuse Sherlock at least momentarily followed by the cashmere v-necked plum jumper. Laid just beside but folded just as neatly.

John had pulled his new jumper out of the bottom of Sherlock’s bag. Soft, loose weave, knitted dark blue it was very fine as well, but was John all over. Pulling it on, he looked at himself in the mirror and admired how well it fit him but was just a little loose allowing it to shrug on his hips which would better conceal his gun on the nights they were running mad through London. Sherlock had thought of even the smallest detail.

Grabbing a few things in hope, he left the room to answer the kettle and brew their tea.


	11. Day Eight: interlude

Sherlock walked into the bedroom still slightly damp and toweling off when he stopped just short of the bed. There is was, just as he knew it would be. John really did have good taste in clothing, he just hated wearing finer clothes for a multitude of reasons. He also knew that John was waiting just on the other side of that door in his chair reading with freshly made tea.

“I love him. I can do this.”

While getting dressed, he admitted the words his heart was heavy in want to say. He knew, no more questioning; it was time to put away childish things. Sherlock was about to grow up and he knew it. It was time and he was ready.

“John?” 

“In here!”

“What are you doing?”

“Whiskey. Just one. Feeling decadent.”

“Obviously. I see you just poured for myself, shall I catch up?”

“Not really behind,” John looked up and smiled at the man behind him. “But I’ll pour us both a second if you want to get pissed. We haven’t had dinner so it’s libel to hit a little harder on empty.”

Both of them finishing their first round off John reaches beside his chair and grabs his traveldour, popping it open he pulls two Opus X out, handing one to Sherlock along with a cutter and his torch.

“Triple X. I know it’s belacoso, but I figured you would be agreeable to a shorter smoke.”

“John, you constantly surprise me.”

“I try.”

With purpose, John snips off the tip. Moistening the tip of his finger with saliva and pats at the newly cut end he contemplates the cigar, rolling it gently in his fingers before bringing up to light pulling four short draws to ignite it properly. 

“So Sherlock, shall I start the conversation this evening?”

Sherlock deftly handles the care of his own cigar, enjoying the weight of the smoke in his mouth. Yet it reminds him of the weight in his heart, the weight he wished to experience, the weight of other ephemerial substances he wished to imbibe. 

“I will not push you. Ever. I mean that.” John starts as if they are already mid-conversation. Maybe they were, Sherlock had been in contemplation for a while. “I know you are married to your work, but you cannot deny what is happening here. Not anymore.”

“I have never denied it John. In fact I have been quite jealous as of late.”

“Of whom? The girls I have been out with? The ones I can’t even keep their names straight? Remember if they have pets? Let go after a few nights out because my heart isn’t in the right place, hmm?”

“Of course your heart is alway in the right place John, what a silly thing to say.”

“I am speaking metiphor-” John aborts this line of conversation quickly. He does not want to be derailed from his intent this evening. Taking another deep draw, John allows the nicotine to buzz along with the whiskey to mellow him further. “I know what you are getting at; but look the poetry...it’s not for them.” 

“Not...Oh.”

“How do you think I feel? I wasn’t ready for this Sherlock.”

“You flirted with me that first night John, don’t act as if you did not.”

“Oh, I’m not denying it. You are pretty, and my flatmate.”

“Married to my work...that’s what stopped you didn’t it. I was on a case John. And besides that, am I just supposed to fall into your lap at an easily turned phrase? I’m not like that and you like the chase. It makes it interesting.”

“No, I did not expect you to act a bint or anything...look, I flirted. I fancied you a bit. You were being all brilliant and clever remember? I was attracted to your mind Sherlock, wanted to get to know you.”

Sherlock gazed into the fire mulling over the conversation. This depth was obviously new to the both of them; good they would be on equal footing where emotions were concerned. But what about...

“How much experience do you have John? How true is the ‘Three Continents’ moniker?”

“Well, hmm. It’s true. The name.”

“What about experience Jo-”

“Plenty.”

“Oh...”

“Well, then, how about you? Experiences?”

“Enough to know it was skin, fluid transfers, power plays; nonsense really.”

“Nonsense?”

“Yes, John. Do keep up. It was boring. Why on earth everyone is besotted with the idea is personally beyond me.”

“To be intimate with another person? To be naked and vulnerable and sheathed in warmth...to be desired.”

“Boring.”

“Well you never had the right partners then.”

“And you are?”

“Are what?”

“Oh do keep up John. No acting coy now. Tell me exactly what you are trying to convey so there is no mistake.”  
“I’m simply saying this, I don’t think you have ever been properly loved before, is all.”

They two of them sat there in companionable silence while Sherlock clearly went back to processing and categorizing all of their conversation. Their cigars finished, John left him by the fire with a clasp of his shoulder denoting understanding, and headed toward the kitchen to start dinner.


	12. Day Ten: snogging in front of the fireplace

“And how exactly is that supposed to be a motivator?”

“Oh, you’ll see. Now do as I ask Sherlock, please.”

John busied himself setting the service together. He wanted to make this nice; a slow seduction. It was terribly new to them both, but the kiss...the kiss cemented it. Sherlock...he needed this, deserved it even. He had lived how much of his life without this? It wasn’t fair. Wasn’t right. He was such a beautiful soul that was just so damned like some tortured innocent. So worldly, so naive.

He had fallen in love with Sherlock. He wanted to show him, surround him. Be his buffer between the cruelty and indifference of others. Reflect his brilliance, warm him. Protect him with his last breath if he had to...but not tonight. Tonight was all about them. Whatever Sherlock asked, he would grant if capable.

“Sherlock, tea’s ready.” The tea set, gingerbread squares settled, extra icing in a small dish. “Going to put this down, hurry up, yea?”

As he kneeled down to tend to the fire, Sherlock came up behind him sinking to his knee nuzzling into the nape of John’s neck while wrapping his arms around John. He allowed Sherlock to explore of his own will and was surprised when the younger man sank them both to sitting on the floor.

“Nice that. What brought this on?”

“Just you, John. Thinking of me always.”

“Yes. That’s true.”

“Why?”

“Well that is something we are going to have to answer together.”

Turning around in Sherlock’ s arms he met his lips once again in a soft caress of warm breath that dissolved into pressing need. John ran his fingers into Sherlock’s hair fusing them together as their kiss turned into a small war of wills. John wanting it heated, oh yes, but slow. He was quickly losing his cognitive reasoning though as Sherlock’s hand were everywhere.

“Sherlock...slow down.”

“But John I-”

John shut him up quickly with another kiss, this time demanding all of Sherlock’s attention. He knew he would have to stay one step ahead of Sherlock to keep him from mostly-thinking, hoping to get the man to allow himself to feel for once.

“Let me Sherlock. I’m so very good at this. Let me take the lead this once, just let it all go.”


	13. Day Nine: baking holiday treats

John had made them a simple dinner of shepherd's pie with soda bread. Something his mom used to make that had always seemed to settle and comfort him, maybe a home cooked meal with no fuss would entice Sherlock to eat. 

“Sherlock?” John called from the kitchen as he moved to the table to lay out the food. Not receiving a response, he headed over towards the fireplace finding Sherlock, not surprisingly, still in thought. Taking a small risk, John pulled his fingers through the edges of Sherlocks curls tucking a few behind the shell of his ear. Leaning down, he whispered his name again. 

“Sherlock...”

It took a few seconds, John could see Sherlock rising back to full cognitive state in his eyes. Sherlock barely tilted his head up toward John, his eyes still slightly hazy with an open look of wonder within them. His lips parted slightly as he inhaled to possibly say something in return, but John could not let the moment pass instead meeting Sherlock’s lips with his. Moving his hand from Sherlock’s ear, he settled it on his neck, softly stroking with his thumb in a slightly comforting nature kissing warmly but with direction. John matched the slight part, lightly grazing the tip of his tongue to Sherlock’s exhalation tasting whisky, smoke, and peppermint. 

They lingered there for what felt like an indefinite amount of time before breaking away. 

“John...”

“I know. It’s alright. I just wanted to love you for a moment.” 

With that, John went to check on dinner. A ten minute re-heat was all that was necessary so he loaded the the items back into the oven so they could have a hot meal instead of the mildly warm it had become. Sherlock came into the kitchen and leaned against the doorway studying John in a slightly dazed way, making new deductions and drawing swifter conclusions.

“Love me?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Love. To touch tenderly, with our without abandon depending on the circumstances.”

“Thank you.” He said as he departed the kitchen to go and sit at the rough-hewned yet polished with age table lost once again in his thoughts. 

John came back in once more with dinner, placing it once again on the table then made one more trip back into the kitchen to go grab the bottle of red he had allowed to breathe that he had pulled from the well stocked wines and two glasses, a slight smile on his face. Sherlock had portioned out a small amount of food onto his plate and it seemed was pleased with John’s attempt.

“Got you eating did I?”

“Well I would hardly turn down one of your family recipes. How could I?”

“I suppose. I just thought I had snogged you into being dazed enough to eat.”

“Possibly.”

“Would you like to help me with some alchemy later? I was going to make icing for the gingerbread.”

Finishing dinner, John took the used items to the sink and deposited them for later. They were going to have plenty to clean up anyway. Well he would have plenty, but that was alright, dinner was worth it.  
Sherlock came around the corner curiously looking at the very old tins John had on the counter, and the contents inside the one he had just opened.

“Did you actually make these John?”

“Yes, two days ago.” John sighed heavily. “You don’t remember me complaining about the lack of syrup until you told me it was hidden up high behind the oats.”

“I do vaguely remember you cutting and tinning something...”

“Well that was this. I precut it to store and make easier to frost as we eat.”

“John, why do you need me in here?”

“Cor, just shut your gob and put this on alright?”

John busied himself pulling ingredients to pull together the royal icing. Bowls, eggs, sugar, glycerine all went on the counter, John humming away while Sherlock looked on slightly amused.

“You’re humming John, are you sure you wouldn’t like me to play for you while you see to our sweets?”

“No Sherlock, it is time to pay for your supper and help me. It will be fun. Go pull the petals would you?”

“Flowers?”

“No, petals. Top shelf. Please.”

The mixer came to life and John sorted out the whites from the yolks giving those to Sherlock to play with as he waited for the froth then added sugar and glycerine. He cracked the next set of eggs and gave those yolks to Sherlock as well. As the icing peaked white and heavenly, John stopped the beaters and pulled the bowl out covering it with a dampened tea towel that he had Sherlock fetch for him.

“Did you mix the other egg whites and water?”

“Yes, John.”

“Alright, this is where it gets fun. Well for you. Take the petals out please and dip the brush into the mixture first, then lightly paint it on. Then I will coat them with the sugar, yea?”

“I did not know you knew how to do any of this?”

“My grandmother loved to bake, she taught me everything she knew. I just don’t get to use it very often is all.”

“Does that mean you made the bread earlier as well?”

“Yes, it does.”

They continued to discuss his Grandmother Peggy, how she was born in America to his English great-mother and Irish great-grandfather, how they came every other year to visit family and her finding her love of baking. She honed it in France during the war, as a shop was a part of her cover. Later, she would tell him stories of bravery and love and loss, teach him to shoot, and survival tactics long disused that might still be terribly helpful when he entered the Army.

“So if it weren’t for her, you might not be here?”

“It’s possible, but I wouldn’t know how to feed you up either.”

“Well, thank God for that then. You knowing how to ‘feed me up’.”

“That is important too Sherlock. One cannot know balance unless properly nourished.” John set the last few sugared petals down on the rack to dry overnight. “Well, I believe we are done. Can you rinse these out and I’ll set the kettle?”

“And why should I?”

“If you do, I’ll put extra icing and give you two squares.”

(recipe will be at end with soundtrack)


	14. Day Eleven:  watching a classic holiday film

Much later, they snuggled closely in bed. John had opened the top of the hutch and popped in a blu-ray he had smuggled in the bottom of his bag last minute to horrify Sherlock with at some point of their time away.

John just knew he would be cringing in glee listening to Sherlock rail at what he had chosen. 

It all started with an American he had befriended. He had told him of his love of quirky comedies and smart dialogue and they ran with it swapping lines while crossing paths to their next patients to break the heaviness or over lighter times in the camp to act a comedian for the others.

“What is this named again John?”

“A Christmas Story...”

“So it’s about the nativity?”

“No, Sherlock. Far from it.”

“Then what is it about?”

“Hmm...first curse words, glowing legs, bunny jammies, and the want of a gun.”

“Glowing legs? Are you sure this isn’t some sort of...I don’t know...twisted American porno or something?”

John laughed so hard he cried.


End file.
